immediately driven to Buffalo and parked at a scrap yard for a month. Rick had maneuvered the bulldozers off the rigs himself, taken the briefcase handed to him. Big money. Maybe he could spend some of what was left on Christina, buy her a dress or shoes, whatever. Jewelry, underwear. Cigarette lighter. Women loved little Italian cigarette lighters.
He wanted to take all of the cash, but that meant he had no backup position if things didn't go well, if the money got stolen or he blew it. On the other hand, he had been sitting in the woods for four years, and a little fun wouldn't kill him. You had to have a little fun or you didn't understand life. He split the stack of bills in two, shoved one half in his pocket and the other back into the envelope, which he replaced in the chimney. The brick might be a little loose, but who would know? He wrenched the exhaust tube back in place and opened the tub of chimney cement. The stuff looked like oatmeal, and he troweled it around the tubing, sealing the wall again. This would take extra time, but it was the right thing to do. I did bad things, but I never killed anybody. He had to protect against the furnace's backdraft; didn't want to asphyxiate Aunt Eva, death seeping through the house. The cement would be dry in a day, undetectable. Like him. The whole point was to be undetectable.
He finished the job, picked up the bucket, and on the stairs up from the basement heard a baby making cranky noises one floor above. 'Oh, chickie-bee, I'm coming,' called a woman sleepily. He stopped on the stairs. Aunt Eva was seventy-something years old. A baby meant young people, a young guy living in the house. Some guy who might notice new furnace cement when he changed the air filters and become curious about what was in the chimney. The baby cried again. Get the rest of the money. Rick turned back down the stairs, moving loudly, slipped around to the back of the furnace, and pulled on the exhaust vent. Nothing-he'd done too good a job cementing it in place. He savagely clubbed it with his arm. He had to hit it twice to dislodge it. Naturally the sound went through the house like a drum. The vent sagged to the floor. He reached in, grabbed the brick, threw it behind him, pulled out the envelope, and slipped it into his other pocket.
Now he could hear footsteps. He hurried back to the stairs and climbed them three at a time, but stopped at the open door to the first-floor hallway.
'Yo, whoever's down there, I got a shotgun!'
The guy was probably hunched at the top of the stairs leading from the second floor to the front door-not twelve steps from where Rick stood in the basement doorway. If the guy came down the stairs from the second floor, he might get a clean shot into the back of Rick's head as he opened the front door.
Now footsteps descended the stairs.
'Where's Aunt Eva?' Rick yelled. 'She's my aunt!'
'Who's that?' came the man's voice. 'Come out of there.'
'That Sal?' Rick yelled. 'Don't fucking shoot me, Sal!'
The baby was crying upstairs. 'Come out of there!'
'Sal?'
'Sal lives in New Jersey. Who the fuck are you?'
'I'm a member of the family.'
'The fuck you are. You come out here.'
He was still holding the tub of chimney cement. He flung it down the hallway to see what would happen. The shotgun exploded, tearing away the plaster, splintering the door frame, making the woman scream and the baby cry louder.
The guy is jumpy, Rick thought. 'What the fuck you doing?' he called, smelling the smoke from the gun.
'Who is that? You come out here, you motherfucker.' Then he yelled up the stairs. 'Beth, call the cops!'
'It's Rick!'
'Rick? Who's Rick?'
'Rick Bocca, Aunt Eva's nephew. Tell Beth it's her cousin Rick Bocca.'
'Beth,' called the voice, 'guy says his name is Rick Bocca!'
He could hear her make some kind of answer. Then he heard footsteps.
'Rick?' came Beth's voice. 'Is that you?'
'Beth, it's me-tell your husband not to fucking shoot me!'
'He's not going to shoot you.'
'Come out of there, you fucker!' came the man's voice again.
'I'll-' she began.
'No, no, don't go get him, let him come out!'
'You're not going to shoot?'
'Come out of there!'
He put his hand out, waved. Nothing happened.
'Come on, goddammit!'
He stepped into the hallway. A small, hairless man in a T-shirt and stained underwear held a double-barreled shotgun. Beth stood behind him, in a short nightgown.
'Ricky?' she cried, still scared. 'Is that you?'
'It's me.'
'You look so different. Beard and everything.'
'It's me, Beth.'
'Why you down there?'
'I just needed to get something, Beth, something I left.'
'Why didn't you call?' she cried, upset all over again. 'I mean, this is crazy, you woke everybody up and scared us and-'
'I thought Aunt Eva was still here.'
'She's in a nursing home, three months.'
'Oh.' He still hadn't taken a step.
'This is Ronnie.'
'Hi, Ronnie. You mind putting down the gun?'
But Ronnie was a small man threatening a big one. A rare thrill, and one not to be concluded too quickly. 'What did you need to get?' he said.
'Just something I left, Ronnie. Personal.'
'What?'
It was ten steps to the door, and if he got near enough, maybe Ronnie wouldn't take a second shot with his wife so close.
'Look,' he began, taking one step, his hands up, 'Aunt Eva said I could leave something down there, and she let me have a copy of the key. Here.' He held up the key.
'We heard you was way out on Long Island, fishing.'
'I was, Beth, but I needed something so I came back.' He looked into her eyes. 'I was out there, and I-'
'I fucking want to know what you were getting!' said Ronnie, waving the barrel at him.
'Hey, Ronnie, wait a minute, I know you don't like this, but you got to see it my way. I didn't want to disturb Aunt Eva.'
'What do you have down there?'
It was greed he saw in Ronnie's face now, and this gave him his answer. 'You're never going to believe this-'
'Try me.'
'Ronnie, for God's sake, put down the gun,' said Beth.
Ronnie pointed the gun at Rick. 'No. I want to hear this. He came back for something, Beth, he came back and wanted something.'
'Okay, Ronnie. You're probably familiar with the furnace, the exhaust vent, right?' He could feel the line coming but didn't know what it was yet. 'I used to help Aunt Eva around the house, and one day, couple of years ago, I hid a big toolbox up the chimney, leaving enough room so that the smoke can still go up no problem.'
You could pack hundreds of thousands of dollars in a toolbox.
'Where's the box?' Ronnie demanded.
'Well, I didn't get it out yet, see, it's still-'
'What's in it?'
